


Lightbound

by TheRealSokka



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: (?), Alternative Outcome, Battle Dance, Battle For Lordaeron, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Strive for Peace, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Question Game, Troubled Past(s), also:, the author has never played WoW, the author has no idea if these two actually have a canon love interest or not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-12-24 12:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSokka/pseuds/TheRealSokka
Summary: "For the Alliance!"Sylvanas Windrunner smirked. So Varian’s little cub had grown up, if only a little. Anduin, she remembered his name was. Quite an impressive show he pulled off. And dangerous. She would have to make sure to crush his lofty ideas of victory personally.(For a slightly better summary, check inside)





	1. Crossed Paths and Blades

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I don't really know how to introduce this. I hadn't expected to ever write something for World of Warcraft, never having played it and not really planning to.
> 
> Recently, though, I've gotten quite interested in the lore and story of the game; mainly through compilations of cutscenes. Because the most recent ones focus heavily on Sylvanas, Anduin and Saurfang, those three have quickly become the most interesting characters to me and I wanted to see more of them. So I took an experimental tumble into the fandom, and the first thing that caught my eye was KaedeRavensdale's "The Wind and the Lion". 
> 
> A few days and an amazing story later, and I'm firmly on board of this ship. Putting characters as diametrically opposed as these two together is just delightful; the possibilities practically write themselves. It's still challenging to get them right, though, and I make no promises that I did. All I can say is that they are extremely fun to write, too.
> 
> Right; the story: this takes place during the Battle for Lordaeron (read: starts with *that scene*) and will deviate from there. Focus is on Anduin's desire for peace and Sylvanas being evil-but-not-really. Will likely turn into a slow, very reluctant burn with future chapters.
> 
> With all that said, please excuse the very-non-canon scenario and the lack of world knowledge, and hopefully have a good time reading this!

* * *

The battle had turned.

Where before the blue and gold armoured soldiers had been pushing mercilessly forward, now they were falling back before the furious onslaught of the Horde. Orcs battered their shields while tauren broke through their ranks, reaching the lines of dwarves behind them before they could reload their blunderbusses. The Alliance’s battle formation was falling apart.

Sylvanas Windrunner noted it with satisfaction, feeling a cold smile stretch her lips. She fired one arrow after another into the rows of her retreating enemies, felling one with every shot. This was where she thrived. She spied her general a few paces to her left, swinging his enormous axe and cutting down three soldiers with one strike, leaving them bloodied on the floor and their comrades to turn tail an flee. With a roar he moved on to then next. A laugh tore from the Banshee Queen’s chest. Humans claimed that Undead like her had lost all ability to feel emotions of any kind. They were wrong.

The Alliance had surprised her by attacking so recklessly, but they would pay for it now. As they had paid for leaving their fortress in the world tree nearly undefended.

Sylvanas frowned briefly at the thought. She was well aware that burning the tree had made her a monster in the eyes of the living – but what else was new? She was used to that. In truth, it had been a siege like any other, and cities were razed in sieges. She had long ago learned that neither the reasons for nor the means of doing something mattered as much as the result; a fact that her enemies – now breaking apart and dying before her eyes – had failed to comprehend. Their eagerness for bringing her to justice for Teldrassil had led them to overextend themselves in their righteous fury. She had not expected it of this young king who was leading them now, but in retrospect it was what his father would have done as well. Though Varian would have put up more of a fight…

A wave of power suddenly rippled through the air, cutting off Sylvanas’ musings abruptly and almost throwing her off balance. She raised a hand in front of her face. A blinding light had suddenly erupted from the lines of the Alliance, swiftly enveloping the entire battlefield. In its brilliance it appeared completely out of place against the scarred ground and death all around, shining almost in defiance of it, and Sylvanas felt her hackles rise: a Light Wielder. A Light Wielder was on the battlefield.

And a powerful one by the looks of it. Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw the ripple of movement in the light, as every Alliance soldier it touched – wounded, dead, or close to it – got back to their feet, weapon in hand. The Banshee Queen hissed in fury, but she knew that there was little she could do to stop it: the light that was healing the bodies and strengthened the minds of the living would burn hers away to ashes if she attempted to enter it.

Then, with the glow finally beginning to fade, she spied its source: a young man without a weapon, clad in armour that was much too big for him, looking as out of place as the light had. As it faded it seemed to settle back into his body, surrounding him in a white shine. Behind him, his men formed up once again, suddenly looking nothing like they had just been about to be slaughtered; weapons drawn and ready to continue the fight.

Impressive. Not that Sylvanas would mind killing them a second time.

The Light Wielder picked up a sword from where it stuck in the ground, and even from a distance she recognized it as his father’s blade. Then he looked up, brilliant blue eyes meeting hers across the battlefield. The tip of the sword raised, a rallying cry, and then the entirety of the Alliance forces surged forward as one.

Sylvanas smirked. So Varian’s little cub had grown up, if only a little. _Anduin_, she remembered his name was. Quite an impressive show he pulled off. And dangerous. She would have to make sure to crush his lofty ideas of victory personally.

Nocking another arrow, she threw herself back into the fray along with her Horde, heading for the radiant glow of light that betrayed her target. Now the battle was far more even, with neither side willing to give ground, and had turned far more ferocious as well. Sylvanas parried the blow of a human soldier with her bow handle, sending his weapon flying, but rather than trying to back away, as logic would demand, the man rushed forward with blind courage, attempting to pin her to his shield. One quick twist brought her behind him to stab an arrow into his neck. Not bothering to watch his body jerk and go limp, she nocked another and fired into a group of dwarves, forcing them to break apart for cover.

There! Through the gap she spied the young king, fighting off an orc twice his size with the glowing blade. With his back turned, he was the easiest target on the battlefield. Sylvanas reached into her quiver for her last arrow and took aim.

Something made her hesitate. It would have been too easy. There would be no satisfaction in killing him like this. He might only look like a smaller and less formidable version of Varian, but after pulling his army from the verge of defeat he deserved to at least see her eyes when she killed him, Sylvanas thought. Before she could decide either way, a night elf warrior rushed at her – seeing her intention and protecting her king or blindly going for the monster that burned her home, she wasn’t sure – and caught Sylvanas’ arrow in the chest, instead. That settled the matter. With her quiver empty, she drew her long, curved daggers and rushed forward.

The ring of soldiers around her target had closed again. If she hadn’t been in battle rush, Sylvanas might have taken the time to marvel at the colourful collection of humans, elves, dwarves and even a few stray draeni that had formed up to protect this boy king, but as it was she was only preoccupied with how to cut them down quickly to clear a path. Her blades sang and screamed, biting into flesh or scraping against metal when they couldn’t find it. She heard a howl a moment before she spied the Worgen it belonged to, catching glimpses of his white pelt over the skirmish. Teeth bared, he was standing right beside his king in an effort to keep him safe. Sylvanas’ face twisted into a snarl. She would gladly make a small deviation from her course to ensure that that was the last howl the Old Wolf ever gave.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. The hairs on her neck raised. The other elves on the battlefield – from both sides – likewise faltered and cast around. Their ears had picked up the same as Sylvanas’; a new noise, barely audible over the clamour of battle, which gave her pause because it should have absolutely no business being here, in the heart of Lorderon: the sound of waves crashing on seashore.

As their inadequate hearing finally picked up on it too, some of the humans stopped fighting as well, looking around in confusion. That only heightened her own. It didn’t seem to be a trick of theirs, and Sylvanas knew for certain that it wasn’t hers. Eyes narrowed, she cast around for the maddeningly evasive sound.

As sudden as a storm, the fog of war suddenly parted and a massive form emerged from the clouds. Staring up in surprise, Sylvanas spied a maiden figurehead on a massive wooden prow. A tall mast hung with three sails. A keel that cast shadow over half the battlefield and was floating on nothing but air. And, on top of the prow, she spied a lone, white-haired figure looking down on them.

_Proudmoore_. The Banshee Queen gave a vicious curse, instinctively reaching for her bow before remembering that she was out of arrows. She cursed again, at the former Arch Mage’s presence in a _flying battleship_ and at Nathanos’ spies who had somehow failed to report on this being a possibility. Of all people to side with the Alliance, she had not expected Jaina Proudmoore to appear. They had a, to put it mildly, troubled history. But the chances that she had come to _not_ interfere on the side of the Alliance in this battle stood at precisely zero.

This was confirmed swiftly, as the ship started raining down fire on the Horde, and the Alliance erupted into cheers. Sylvanas, never one to let surprise get the better of her for long, took advantage of their distraction and took out the last three remaining guards in her way. Then she headed straight for the lion cub. The arrival of one leader might have raised the morale of her enemies to dangerous levels, but the fall of another would bring it down just as swiftly. In the corner of her eyes, she noted that Greymane was busy fighting off Saurfang and his berserkers, who apparently had had the same idea. Anduin Wrynn stood alone.

He saw her coming at the last second, bringing his sword up just in time. Their blades met with a resounding _clang_, their eyes doing likewise for one second, his startlingly blue ones staring at her with a mix of surprise and defiance, before she darted away. His sword lurched at the sudden lack of resistance, throwing him off balance. With two quick steps she was on him again, bringing up her left dagger in a feint, which he promptly fell for, and striking with the right at the seam between his breastplate and his leg. By some lucky movement it missed and glanced harmlessly off the metal, but she could see the boy’s eyes grow wide. He knew how closely he had just avoided death.

_Not for long_. She didn’t give him time to recover. Spinning her blades, she struck high, low, high again. He backed away – clumsily, with his bad leg. Even if he’d had the battle prowess of his father that he lacked, this injury would have made it easy for her regardless. While he was off balance, she spun right into the reach of his sword, met his wild swing with her blades and forced the sword up, leaving him wide open. The next stab of her daggers was aimed at his handsome, unprotected face.

This time no armour stood in her way. But still, to her surprise, she was met with resistance. An explosion of brilliant light knocked her backwards, nearly tripping her over the fallen bodies before she caught herself. With an agile twisted she landed on her feet and turned. _Interesting_. She had to admit to having expected this fight to be over by now. With cold calculation she scanned her opponent.

Wrynn was cloaked in golden light. He was clutching his father’s blade tightly with both hands, assuming a defensive stance. His mouth was set in the way of those afraid but unwilling to show it. “Not this easy.” he ground out. His voice wasn’t the high pitch of a child anymore, but not that far from it, either.

“Fair enough, boy.” Sylvanas replied easily. They circled each other; he wary and not daring to take his eyes off her; she taking the time to properly look him over for the first time. He held the sword quite differently to his father, adjusting his grip every so often as if it didn’t fit comfortably into his palm. There was no hate in his expression, just pure focus, masking the fear – and, in that strange Wrynn way, there was authority in his posture. Meanwhile, the combination of his Light and her menacing aura seemed to have cleared a space around them: it was just them in the middle of the battlefield, which was just as well because Sylvanas had no wish to be interrupted now. This had just become interesting. “So, you do have some skill, apparently.” she allowed. “But you know how this will end.”

“No, I don’t.” the young king shot back. “And I’ve never much believed people who claim they do.”

“Pity.” she sighed. Then her eyes, and her tone, narrowed. “Let’s see what you’re made of, _King Wrynn_.”

The world narrowed to only the two of them. To his credit, he didn’t back down, not that she’d let him if he’d tried. Her blades flashed as she spun around him in a deadly dance, his sword meeting them or, more often, empty air. She was too fast for him. But every time she came close to striking, he somehow managed to conjure up a Light shield at the last second to give himself a brief moment of respite.

Sylvanas grinned wolfishly as their little game developed; a dance of speed versus reflexes that entertained her more than any simple clash of blades had. She revelled in the clash of steel on steel, well aware that she had the upper hand on Wrynn by virtue of experience alone. If any of his guards were trying to help him, the Horde was preventing them from doing so, and Sylvanas certainly wouldn’t allow any interruptions on her end. Being able to direct her focus only on this unconventional opponent and finding ways to outmanoeuvre him as he struggled to do the same to her made her feel alive like she hadn’t in a long time. A pity that it couldn’t last very long.

The dance was tiring her opponent fast. Whatever mana reserves Wrynn had had to be running low, because his castings grew sloppier, the margin for error ever narrower as her blades closed in. A lightning fast cut flashed across his left cheek, right below the eye, and left a thin red trail. Sylvanas smirked, allowing the briefest of pauses for him to reach up and touch the wound; to realize that this was going to end very soon. She must have managed to hit Wrynn on the head, too, at some point because his response was to answer her smirk with one of his own; an expression which looked completely out of place on his dignified royal face.

He really had no reason to be smiling. The next barrage of strikes and stabs sent him stumbling, his bad leg giving way beneath him. Clumsily he raised the sword in his defence. Sylvanas scoffed at the useless gesture, having expected more as a last defence, and aimed to kick the blade away.

He had feigned. The moment her guard was down, he swung his weapon around in a sweeping arc, aiming for her chest. Surprised, Sylvanas parried the blow, the force of it sending the sword flying from her opponents grip. He lunged at her, trying to get a grab on her wrists. One second later he found himself on his back, with her boot on his chest pinning him down.

“Not bad.” she said, regaining her posture. The day would never come that she’d respect a human, but he’d put up more of a fight than she would have given him credit for. “I thought the little lion cub was a priest, not a warrior.”

“I am.” he said. To his credit, he didn’t look away from her. Still that defiance in his eyes. “I’m a fast learner.”

“Not fast enough.” she stated the obvious. Her heel dug into the plate covering his collarbone, leaving a noticeable dent in the silver metal. His look turned a little perplexed, as if asking if that was meant to hurt him. It wasn’t. She didn’t intend to torture him, just to get the point across. “Pleasure to meet you, Anduin Wrynn. But I’m afraid you have to die now. You were a good fight.”

“The pleasure is mine.” he said. His eyes darted to something over her shoulder. “But I’m just the distraction.”

Sylvanas spun around – or tried to. To her consternation, her legs wouldn’t move. Something held them in place, and while she still struggled to take a step she felt something close around her wrists as well. Looking down, she was met with two thick coils of magic wrapping themselves around her ankles and arms, tying her down like a prisoner’s chain. 

Cursing viciously, this time primarily at herself for letting herself be distracted, the Banshee Queen struggled against the chains. Looking over her shoulder, she spied the source of her predicament: Proudmoore was no longer on her boat but standing less than three feet away, murmuring incantations that immediately took effect in the form of the chains drawing tighter. The other woman looked up, fixing Sylvanas with a pale, cold stare.

She howled and attempted to assume her spirit form, but the mage knew her handiwork and had thought of that. She’d had time enough, with how long Sylvanas, for some reason that she couldn’t wrap her head around now, had focussed on her king and nothing else. If the blood in her veins were still flowing, it would have risen to her cheeks in anger. She was better than this; how could she have allowed this to happen?

After trying one last time to break the chains, she gave up the struggle. There was no point. She could see no sign of Saurfang or the rest of her army, either; only burnt patches of ground where the mage’s fire blasts had beaten them into retreat. Sylvanas ground her teeth: once she got back to the city, heads would roll.

“I’ve got her.” Proudmoore’s voice broke into the sudden silence that had descended over the battlefield. “She isn’t going anywhere.”

“Just in the nick of time.” That was Wrynn. He sounded breathless. “Thanks, Jaina.”

The mage gave him a curt nod, before focussing her pale stare back on Sylvanas. Her expression held nothing but loathing.

It was mirrored in the face of every Alliance soldier that had gathered around them. Sylvanas could feel their hatred beating against her skin, and for the first time in years she unexpectedly felt a twinge of fear. These might be trained soldiers, but right now they had the embodiment of their enemy in front of them, and she had seen enough mobs in action to know the potential for a frenzy when she saw it.

She might actually die here. Against her will, the former High Elf shivered. It wasn’t the pain that had her scared, but what would come after it. She had seen what waited beyond death, and she’d sooner kill every last one of them than see it again. But she couldn’t move an inch. She was powerless. Again.

The first shouts of _“Kill her!”_ and _“Justice!”_ and _“For the Alliance!”_ were just starting to rise up when their king finally seemed to understand what was about to happen. Wrynns’ face went pale and his eyes flicked to her, lingering for a moment. Then a jolt seemed to go through him and he quickly stepped up to the bound Warchief before anyone else could. When he spoke, his voice was tense with formality. “Sylvanas Windrunner, I am taking you as my prisoner. The battle is over. Do you surrender?”

The nervous flicker of his eyes told her that he was just as afraid, if not more so, of what would happen if she declined. Sylvanas bristled. Mercy; perhaps even compassion. She had sworn herself never to depend on such again. As soon as she were able, she made the ironclad decision in that moment, she would make him pay for this. Staring at the young king with loathing, she gave the slightest of nods.

Wrynn didn’t move for a moment, as if he weren’t sure how to proceed from here. Then he seemed to get a grip and straightened up to address his army; not, as Sylvanas noted with grim satisfaction, without a noticeable stagger. He looked dead on his feet. “Take her.” he said in Proudmoore’s direction. Then, to the soldiers: “The battle is ours! Everyone, gather the wounded. We’ll withdraw to camp to see to them. Then we’ll negotiate for the surrender of the city.”

There was an uproar of cheers, mostly muffling the scattered cries of dissent from the most bloodthirsty among her enemies. They were so sure that they had won already. Unlike Wrynn, in whom Sylvanas now observed only uncertainty behind the controlled mask of the Alliance leader; nothing like he had appeared during their fight. She smiled coolly. Uncertainty like that had killed better men in battle.

“Enjoy your victory, little lion!” she taunted. “It won’t last long.”

“You won’t have a say in that.” Proudmoore said coldly. She gave a twist and the shackles tightened noticeably. “Move. And don’t even think about trying to escape. Unlike Anduin I have no qualms about putting a sword though a traitor’s back, _Warchief_.”

Sylvanas laughed at that. “You’re really calling _me_ a traitor, Proudmoore? That’s the pot calling the kettle black if I’ve ever heard it. Remind me; how are your brother and father doing again?”

The chains dug into her skin hard, eliciting a hiss of pain from her.

“Jaina!” Wrynn called sharply. For a second that authority was back in his posture, only to deflate again a moment later as his and the mage’s eyes met. The next words were spoken almost pleadingly: “She’ll answer for her crimes. Just get her out of here. Please.”

Something unspoken passed between the two of them and after a moment the mage looked away. The shackles loosened again.

“Oh, thank you, my gallant hero.” Sylvanas mocked as she was led away. When he gave no indication of heaving heard her, she called over her shoulder: “War doesn’t reward weakness, Wrynn! You’ll learn that soon!” She sent him a vicious smirk. “And I’ll be the one standing over you when that happens, little lion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing spash art is not mine. Go over to the creator's page and leave them some praise, if you have the time. It's well deserved in my opinion:
> 
> https://www.artstation.com/artwork/xlbQm


	2. Dead Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the battle, Anduin has to decide how to approach the ongoing siege - and his rather unconventional prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first of all, thanks a lot to Jojo1112 for looking over this chapter and providing helpful tips. Thanks to them I now know that:  
\- mages can't actually heal in WOW  
\- Anduin's leg impairment is something I took from 'The Wind and the Lion' without realizing that it's not officially canon (at least not to that extent) - but since I love that story and it is pretty much canon to me, the leg thing will stay in  
\- 'really' is a bad word  
\- there is some history to catch up on with WOW characters. Like, a lot. I'll try my best not to confuse things too much.
> 
> With that said, I hope you have fun reading this story. I'm certainly having a blast writing it.

* * *

“Agh!” The face of the soldier twisted in pain. His knuckles pressed against the stretcher were white.

Anduin comfortingly covered them with his own hand. Tired though he was he did his best to project some assurance into his voice. He wasn’t sure if he entirely succeeded. “Just lie still. Give me a moment and that’ll be good as new.”

The soldier – Denhall, as he had managed to tell him – nodded and gritted his teeth. Anduin returned his attention to the man’s thigh and the grievous wound he had sustained there. To be frank, there was almost more wound than thigh left, and it went all the way down to the bone. Weapons swung with orcish strength had that effect and it was probably lucky that Denhall’s leg was even still attached to his body; not that that would comfort the poor man any. After a moment’s concentration, golden light began to flow from Anduin’s hands, seeping into the wound and slowly drawing the rent flash back together.

The exhaustion that accompanied the spell was noticeably stronger than the last few times and deep down Anduin knew that he would have to stop soon before he hurt himself or his patients. The battle, followed by the subsequent necessity of healing the wounded, had taken its toll on him and he had already taken a greater amount of mana potions than could be considered safe. He should really stop.

But as he looked across the makeshift infirmary now, there were still far too few healers to be seen; far too many of his men twisting in pain on the stretchers – and some lying dangerously still. Anduin’s stomach twisted at the sight. They had won a victory today, but it didn’t feel like it.

The wound on the soldier’s thigh had closed to an angry red line. It wasn’t close to ‘good as new’ and would leave a nasty scar in the best of circumstances, if not more permanent damage. Despite the pain he had to still feel, Denhall sat up and clasped his arm, expression fierce. “Thank you, my king. I’m in your debt.”

_For what_, Anduin wanted to ask, _almost leading you into a slaughter?_ He didn’t say it out loud, just returned the man’s grip and then firmly pressed him back down to lie still. Storing the guilt away for a later. Then moving on to the next stretcher.

So it went on. In the corner of his eyes, Anduin was aware of a handful of his guards shadowing him, keeping a respectful distance but never more than a few steps behind. After his close encounter with the Warchief of the Horde, they refused to let him out of their sight for even a second, and he couldn’t exactly blame them. Multiple times he’d already had to allay their concerned questions if he was alright – theirs and everybody else’s it felt like, from Mathias downwards. Their concern for him was touching, but honestly, they had bigger problems to worry about.

One of those problems kept staring him in the face even now. To the king’s mounting worry, there was still no sign of Genn anywhere. If he had been able, Anduin knew his old advisor would have joined him by now, and his continued absence suggested the worst. Against his better knowledge, Anduin cast around once again. There was no sign of the Old Wolf; he only spied Jaina standing a few feet away, likewise focused on the wounded and muttering spells. Her arsenal was generally more suited to combat than healing (as indicated by the concentrated frown on her face), but she was making an effort.

The sight of her brought an exhausted smile to Anduin’s lips, despite everything. More than anything else, he had been glad to see her – and not only because her arrival had won the battle. The white-haired, older woman was like family to him, but they hadn’t parted on the best of terms the last time they met and he wasn’t quite sure where they stood now. Neither was she by the look of things: since the battle she had kept a careful distance from him, perhaps not quite ready to talk about things yet, so Anduin had done her the same courtesy and given her some space.

Though, at some point he would _really_ have to ask her about that flying battleship.

“Anduin!” a voice barrelled into his theories. In his exhaustion, it made him jump just a little bit. Turning around as quickly as his throbbing leg would allow, he was met with the green eyes, red plate armour and impatient air of a blood elf striding towards him, brushing past his guards without sparing so much as a look.

“Valeera?” he said with some surprise. A positive one, to be sure, but still. He had thought her to be somewhere undercover in Pandaria, halfway across the world. “What are you doing here?”

The rogue was wearing the look of exasperation on her face that had become very familiar to Anduin, as he was the cause of it most of the time. “Making sure you’re not dead, Anduin. Mathias sent word of what happened and I took the nearest portal.” Her eyes quickly scanned him up and down. “Are you alright?”

Anduin rolled his eyes. “It’s good to see you, too. And for the hundredth time today; yes, I’m fine. If everybody stopped asking me that, I might be able to focus on the ones who aren’t.”

Valeera, his personal spy and arguably closest friend, narrowed her green eyes at him, evidently searching for some sign that he wasn’t telling the truth. Apparently she didn’t find one, because a moment later she instead stepped forward to embrace him in a hug. The fierceness of it told him more about the extent of her worry than her words ever could. “You’re such an idiot, _beag’bráthair_.”

Anduin sighed, allowing himself to slump against her and hang on to something steady for a moment. “I know, I know. Everybody from my father downwards has already told me so. But it’s good to know that at least you have my back. Thanks.”

“This is not about having your back; this is about stopping you from wandering headfirst into a volley of trouble like a deer with a death wish. Every. Single. Time, Anduin!”

“I’m not actively seeking out trouble.” Anduin replied indignantly. Even though, privately, he had to admit that he did have a penchant for finding it, given his track record. “What did you want me to do? Just stay in camp and send my men to do the fighting for me?”

“I’m not arguing for that much. But the Banshee Queen?! Seriously?”

“She came at _me_!” he defended himself, feeling his cheeks flush.

“And got herself captured for it, I know. I still have no idea how you managed that. This could turn the tide of the war. But do you have any clue how lucky you are to be still alive?”

Anduin had some notion. He had done his best to avoid thinking about the encounter for the past few hours, as it had proved too distracting and there was work to be done. Even now, his heart started beating frantically as he recalled it. Seeing the Horde Warchief’s proud figure standing atop the battlements at the beginning of the siege had already filled him with some dread, as well as the scary knowledge that there was no turning back now anymore. Then that had turned into outright shock when she had jumped off the siege tower and her otherworldly scream had echoed across the battlefield – but even that was nothing compared to the moment when she had suddenly appeared out of the fray and they had come face to face.

Their fight had turned into the most exhilarating thing Anduin had ever done. With Sylvanas Windrunner bearing down on him like a storm, he had forgotten all his arduously acquired knowledge of fighting and fallen back on pure instinct to survive. He had never felt more alive and more scared than in that moment. It had sharpened his senses to the point where he noticed every little detail – that had to be what Genn was talking about when he spoke of ‘battle rush’. Once Jaina had managed to restrain Sylvanas and the adrenaline rush had worn off, he had all but collapsed. “I thought she’d kill me.” he told his friend.

Valeera scoffed. “So you do have some sense.” The concern on her face robbed the words of their edge. “Anduin, I know you’re no coward; you don’t have to keep proving it. With your leg, no one expects you to be in the front lines all the time.”

Anduin wanted to argue that this had nothing to with his pride – it hadn’t – but just then the frayed edges of the bones in his leg ground together painfully almost as if to agree with her words and he decided that the argument was probably not worth it. He should really seek out a healer himself at the next opportunity.

The blood elf reached up to his face and gently traced the thin line where the banshee’s dagger had cut the skin. It was already scabbing over and Anduin had all but forgotten about it in the aftermath. A thin smile appeared on his friend’s lips. “At least you got a nice battle scar to show for it.”

He snorted. “Hardly the first.”

“But easily the most charming. The Stormwind ladies will swoon over this one.”

She had an uncanny talent for making him blush. Anduin thought he heard one of the women in his guard chuckle, which didn’t help his embarrassment any. “There’s a time and a place, Val!” he protested.

His friend grinned mischievously. “Look at you; all red as a sunset. I’ve really gotta find you a date soon.”

Anduin was saved by a voice coming from behind him. “Your majesty?” it addressed him, carrying the signature blend of calm with the certainty of a man who had made a profession of catching the other party by surprise.

Neither Anduin nor his friend jumped; they were both used to the spymaster’s unnerving talent for appearing without warning by now. Anduin gave the man a tired smile. “Mathias. I understand I’ve got you to thank for her being here.”

“You could sound more enthused and less like I’m a nuisance.” Valeera chided, hitting his elbow.

Spymaster Mathias Shaw bared his teeth in a rare, amused smile. “You know he’s glad to see you. Never been good at pretending, despite my best efforts to teach him. Forgive me for wanting you safe after today’s events, Anduin.” he added, turning to his king.

Anduin decided not to comment on the two of them conspiring against him. His mind, grown somewhat at ease in Valeera’s presence, returned to present matters and a shadow cast over his face. “Any news of Gen yet?”

The spymaster shook his head. His expression was grim. “Nothing; vanished off the battlefield. It’s all but sure they’ve taken him in their retreat, but whereto I cannot yet say. I have every spy I have in Lordaeron on it, precious few of them though there are left.” He looked pointedly at Anduin. “But that is not our greatest concern right now. What are you planning on doing with your illustrious prisoner?”

Anduin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right; there’s that small matter. Would you believe me when I said I don’t know?”

“Fully. Because if I’ve trained you at all well – and I like to believe I have – then you’ve already gone through the options and come to the same conclusion.”

“Releasing Sylvanas is out of the question.” Anduin listed. “If we make a prisoner exchange for Gen, she will just resume the war immediately and many more will die. If we keep her locked up, every day that goes by increases the chance of her loyalists finding out her location and breaking her out, no matter how tight we draw security. If we were to ignore every code of honour and killed her, that would bring shame down on us and inflame the Horde to keep fighting like nothing else would.” He glanced at Valeera, half expecting her to contradict him, but she stayed silent. “So, we can’t keep her and we can’t let her go. All in all, her capture has earned us nothing except her not actively fighting against us anymore. Unless there’s something I’m missing in all this mess?”

“There is the possibility that the Horde will descend into a leadership struggle should Sylvanas fail to return.” Jaina made herself heard. She had stepped up to their little circle without him noticing.

Opposed to the time before they parted, when a manic fire had burned in her eyes, her tone had softened considerably, but it still carried that edge of loathing for her enemies and hearing the news of Teldrassil had only served to rekindle it. It pained Anduin to hear it. She used to be just as ardent a supporter of peace as he was. He thought she still might be, deep down, noticing how her white and blonde braid had come undone while she’d been healing the wounded. Jaina followed his gaze and nudged it back over her shoulder with a resolute gesture. “They have precious few capable leaders left in their ranks, so this could work out in our favour.”

“There certainly are divisions.” Mathias confirmed. “The envoys you sent might serve to further deepen them, Anduin. Some in the Horde will not be as opposed to surrendering the city as others.”

“That’s not why I sent them.” Anduin said firmly. He thought of Saurfang, the old orc who might have taken over command of the Horde since Sylvanas capture, and of his friend Baine. Fate had put them on opposite sides of this battle; that didn’t mean they were evil or deserved to die. “My offer of peace was an honest one. As long as they might be willing to end this conflict before it takes even more lives, we have to extend our hand to them.”

“And how long are you going to keep taking these chances?” Jaina demanded.

“Until there are none left!”

“There’s a cost to chances.” Her eyes were full of pain as she gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Anduin, and you have a good heart. But so few people are like you and not everyone deserves to be given a chance.”

Anduin met her eyes. Wishing for her to understand. He didn’t want to quarrel, not with her. But he felt strongly that she was wrong in this. “I haven’t yet met one who didn’t.”

Jaina opened her mouth to argue, but to Anduin’s relief Mathias decided to cut in. He could always be counted on to steer a conversation back into practical waters when emotions threatened to drag it off course. “Be that as it may; we should first wait for word from your envoys and see where our enemies stand before we decide anything. The Forsaken, at least, will never give up the city, but the rest of the Horde might decide that it’s not worth dying for. And die they will if they decide to try and make a stand. We have Lordaeron surrounded and they don’t have the forces for another counterattack. For now, we can afford to wait.”

Jaina frowned. “In my experience the Horde doesn’t surrender, or voluntarily take to diplomacy. I doubt they even have a word for it.”

“Especially not while you have the banshee.” Valeera added. Anduin glanced at her: if she and Jaina were of one mind about something, things really were bad. “Any deal you’d do, I bet they’ll insist on you releasing her.”

“Almost certainly.” Mathias confirmed.

“Which we can’t do, I know.” Anduin sighed. He was starting to feel just how tired he was. “Not after Teldrassil. Why do all these options always turn into dead ends?”

He pushed past Mathias, approaching the next stretcher. Healing, at least, what was he knew and was good at. The man before him was still alive, but only barely. He didn’t seem to notice Anduin stepping up to his side; only stared blankly ahead. An arrow jutted out of his neck, terrifyingly close to the artery; nobody having dared to remove it for fear of finishing the archer’s work. The shaft was coloured black, with unusual red fletching at the end. Anduin recognized it, and his stomach twisted at the sight.

A hand touched his shoulder, gently forcing him to turn around. When he did, he saw Valeera giving him an encouraging smile. “Hey. You do have a talent for busting through dead ends, _beag’bráthair. _Don’t start reproaching yourself. You always find a way, even if it’s an unlikely and completely and utterly mad one.”

Anduin nodded at her gratefully. “Thank you.” He ran a hand over his man’s chest, searching for the faint heartbeat. He was tired, but he should have just a little bit of healing energy left in him. His thoughts ventured out, contemplating his friend’s words. “Perhaps I could arrange a meeting with Saurfang. He’s honourable; we might still find a way to solve this without further bloodshed. If we’re lucky, he might even weigh in on the Forsaken.”

Valeera rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean the ‘mad’ as a dare, you know!”

Jaina was shaking her head. “There is always going to be more bloodshed before this war is over. That’s not your fault, Anduin, nor is it your burden. The scars just run too deep.” His aunt’s eyes flicked between him and the wounded soldier. Her expression held concern, and sadness. “For your sake I wish it weren’t so. If I could take back the part I played in bringing us here, I would. But, Anduin, this is where we stand now and not even you can solve this conflict by talking alone.”

* * *

Sylvanas didn’t know how much time had passed since she had been captured. There was no sunlight finding its way into the cell she had been pushed into, nor anything else to tell the time by. Neither had anyone of worth shown up to see her since. Frankly, she was starting to get bored.

The cell was nothing special; just a small, rectangular room with moss-covered stone walls, illuminated by a single torch. Distantly, Sylvanas could make out what sounded like waves hitting rocks, making her suspect that her prison stood somewhere close to the sea. She had been blindfolded on her way in, but she had felt the distinct sensation of walking through a portal, so she was reasonably sure she wasn’t near the battlefield anymore. The Alliance wouldn’t be so stupid as to put her anywhere easily traceable.

Just for something to do she flexed her wrist, immediately reaching the limits of the chains wrapped around it. These were physical, securing her as an additional precaution to Proudmoore’s magic and shackling her to the cell wall. And like that weren’t enough, another priest – she was almost certain it hadn’t been Wrynn himself – had provided the chains with a Light enchantment, which was probably the most sadistic measure of them all. Anytime her cold skin made contact with the enchanted metal, Sylvanas could feel it burning away at her. Even just wearing them felt like she was standing too close to a furnace.

Fortified in such, the chains were unbreakable, so she had briefly tried to tear them out of the mortar instead, but that only served to burn her skin raw and her captors hadn’t taken any chances. Resigning herself to the fact that she wouldn’t be getting out this way, the Banshee Queen had adopted a position on her knees, which was just as far as the chains would allow and was the only position that didn’t put strain on her limbs. It was a little bit humiliating, or at least it would have been for someone who still cared what others thought of her. But since she hadn’t seen a living soul in what felt like hours that was a moot point anyway.

Her ears pricked up when she heard a quiet snapping sound. The torch in its sconce flickered briefly in some unseen current of air. Sylvanas straightened, as much as her situation permitted: somewhere close by, a portal had just been opened. _About time_.

Heavy footsteps approached, followed by a quiet conversation outside the door. She could make out at least three voices. So most likely there were two who had just arrived, talking with the commander of her guards – as well as probably up to five of those guards who stayed silent. Sylvanas would have felt insulted if they’d left less than five to guard her, and seeing how overcautious they’d been with her shackles it didn’t seem like they would take chances with anything else.

Then the door creaked open and a single figure stepped into her cell.

He kept to the shadows at first, but even without her perfect vision the glowing sword hanging from his hip would have immediately betrayed him. Sylvanas was a little surprised, not having expected him to show up alone. She smirked noting the careful, wary way he approached and the slight limp in his step. Without the ferociousness of the battlefield, his figure just looked small. Pitiful, really.

“The little lion.” she sneered. “Here to enjoy your prize?”

Wrynn didn’t dignify her with a response as he stepped up to the bars and into the light. His fair hair had lost its dishevelled, wild look from the battlefield and was now held back in a more orderly braid. The ridiculously oversized armour was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a simple light blue garment, hood and gloves – a setup which allowed him to pass through the door without walking sideways, but did little in the form of protection. Then again, as Sylvanas knew now, he didn’t need it. He had the Light.

“Lady Windrunner.” he said. Instead of leading into anything, the greeting just hung in the air between them while he observed her closely. She in turn did the same to him, taking in more details: the tightness in his hands, the slight slump in his shoulders and the thin scar running across his right cheek. Aside from the latter, there was nothing that reminded of the man she had met on the battlefield, but this mutual observation _was_ familiar. Sizing each other up to find weaknesses – or, on his part, whatever else it was he was looking for. Frankly, Sylvanas wasn’t sure with this boy king.

She pointedly glanced around the cell in boredom. “You haven’t killed me yet, nor done anything else of worth. Is this your goal; just gawking at me all day? I never would have pecked the holy king of the Alliance for a pervert.”

It was difficult to tell in the gloom, but she thought his cheeks darkened a little. Sylvanas nearly rolled her eyes. He should really not show his inexperience quite so easily.

Wrynn cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk.”

“I’ll have to clear my schedule for that. I’m very busy, as you can see.”

He snorted wryly. “I can’t, but if you say so.”

So he did possess a sense of humour. Which was good, Sylvanas supposed, as this talk would make for a passable distraction if nothing else. She looked past him, her eyes piercing the darkness of the prison with ease, before turning her attention back to him. “Is this supposed to be an interrogation? Where’s Shaw? Or the mutt? I thought he’d at least come to gloat.”

Wrynn hesitated for a moment. Looking to be debating how much he should tell her. “Genn’s been taken by your forces. We haven’t heard from them yet.”

Sylvanas almost laughed. How ironic it was that the Old Wolf and the Banshee Queen were to be both taken alive in the same day, despite their reputation to the contrary. Ironic, and very unfortunate for her old enemy. “I’d wish him goodbye if I were you. Nathanos will have him in a cell as well, but I doubt it is this kind. Assuming he hasn’t already killed him for what he did to us.”

The boy’s face hardened, and suddenly he looked almost like Varian. “Not as long as we might do the same to you.”

“You’d just murder a defenceless prisoner?” she raised a long eyebrow in mocking surprise. “Stoop to the same level as your monstrous enemies? I’d not have thought it of you, little lion!”

She could tell the nickname irked him. “I’m not going to kill you.”

_I know, because you couldn’t bring yourself to_. “That’s nice of you to say. You could have kept me in suspense about it a little longer. It’s the only leverage you had. But then you don’t know anything about means of pressure, do you?”

“I prefer truth and honesty.”

“The cloth shield of the righteous.” she mocked. “You are a priest at heart, after all. What are you doing waging this war, priestling?”

Something flitted briefly across his face, but Sylvanas noted that he was now making more of an effort to keep his expression controlled. Small steps, she supposed. But he was still as easy to read as an open book. “You have no idea, do you.” she stated, starting to enjoy this little sparring of words. “You don’t want to kill; you’re afraid of those close to you being killed; hence you’ll always be torn what to do – and that’s why you are going to lose. You could spare us both the time and just surrender now.”

“Aren’t you confusing our positions?” he asked, with a clipped tone of voice that told her her remarks had been right on the mark.

Smiling, she leaned back, as languidly as was possible with the chains. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Wrynn stared at her. His right hand gripped the cell bars tight. His left reached into his tunic and returned with a dark, bloodied arrow, before he wordlessly threw it into the cell with her.

Sylvanas glanced down at it, recognizing it as her own by the red fletching. He must have taken that from the battlefield. She looked back up. “Is this supposed to tell me something?”

The boy king gritted his teeth. _Temper, though better controlled than his father’s_. He unclenched his jaw long enough to get out a question: “Will you agree to a truce if I released you?”

“No.”

“Do you even care about the suffering you’re causing? To your people and mine?”

Sylvanas cocked her head in amusement. “Again, is this an interrogation? Because you do not have the makings of an interrogator, little king. One might even say you’re terrible at it.”

“Perhaps I’m just trying to gauge if this conversation is worth having.”

“Of course it is! Do you have any idea how boring four walls and a roof get if you see nothing else for the past hours? If you want to keep blabbering, I won’t stop you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then: “This is all a game to you, isn’t it? Even our fight, back on the battlefield. You like to toy with people.”

Sylvanas shrugged. “Only if they present a challenge.” She threw him a pointed look.

His clear blue eyes blazed. Angry, intelligent eyes that, as she noted for the second time, were not afraid to meet her own. Interesting. Very few in her own Horde could claim the same. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a coward. Or perhaps he was just mad.

She cocked her head to the side. “If that’s all, your majesty, I suggest you walk out that door, because whatever you came her to accomplish, you won’t get it. And you should have that scratch seen to.” She smiled sweetly. “It looks like that might scar.”

Wrynn didn’t move; not that she had expected him to give up this easily if he had inherited any of his father’s stubbornness, which looked to be the case. What he didn’t seem to have inherited was Varian’s temper, because his features were much faster to smooth over again, the angry spark in his blue eyes much quicker to abate. They held hers and she could see the cogs turning behind them. Suddenly, Wrynn straightened up, his face turning into a blank mask. “Ask me a question.”

Sylvanas frowned. “What?” she asked a bit more sharply, not knowing what he was getting at.

“You want a challenge, so here’s mine. Whatever you ask, I promise I will tell you the truth – as long as you reciprocate. Battle plans, defences, family secrets; whatever you want to know. Then it’s my turn. No lies; no hiding. Just a little game, and we’ll see who gets the most out of it.”

Had he completely lost his mind? She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge his intention. Somewhat to her dismay, the mask held. _Fast learner_, she remembered. “What makes you think I’d need to know anything from you?”

“You’d be a poor Warchief if you didn’t appreciate the value of information.” He gave a grim, alien smile. “And you’re already enjoying stripping me apart to find weaknesses. Why not continue?”

“You are one giant weakness, Wrynn.” Sylvanas retorted. She was aware that he was trying to manipulate her; it was a rather pathetic attempt. But she couldn’t deny that the idea of continuing to keep him squirming around his ideals was – appealing. Certainly better than staring at the mould on the wall all day. It wasn’t like she had anything to lose; she had decades of experience with lying and half-truths and this boy king likely wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference. And if he really was stupid enough to divulge any secrets of value…

She met his eyes, a smirk spreading on her lips. “Alright; I’ll play along, little lion. If you so badly want to make a fool of yourself, far be it from me to stop you. But I will ask the first question."

He returned the smirk –and for some reason it didn’t look as completely out of place on his face as it had before. “Be my guest.”


	3. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anduin and Sylvanas play a little game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote a famous figure: And here we - go!
> 
> Once again brought to you by Jojo1112-proofreading, aka my good-spirited sounding board for this story. Hope you have a good time reading!

The doors of Undercity’s throne room closed slowly after the three ambassadors of the Alliance – two humans and a night elf, all looking rather relieved at the prospect of escaping the gauntlet of orcs who lined the walls and were meaningfully toying with their weapons – had stepped through them. They fell shut with a resounding _clang_, leaving the remaining leaders of the Horde inside by themselves.

“Threats, sweet words and an offer of peace.” commented Lor’themar. The former High Elf turned his green gaze away from where the ambassadors had just been. “Thoughts?”

“It’s a genuine offer.” the huge tauren Baine stated. He had kept his silence for the duration of the meeting, though that was more out of respect than a lack of something to say, clearly. “I know Anduin, and those were his words. Note how they explicitly said ‘peace’, not ‘surrender’. He would have had every right to call it the latter by this point.”

Saurfang frowned, looking up at his friend. “We’re not defeated yet, Baine.”

“You know as well as I do that that’s only because they’ve _chosen_ not to attack again yet. With Jaina there, they would have our walls down in minutes. We’re too weakened to withstand another assault.”

The old orc huffed and rose from his position on the throne steps. He had chosen not to sit on the royal throne when he addressed the ambassadors, partly because he wasn’t Warchief and partly because the thing was plain and simple not made for an orc. His head ached, a condition he hadn’t even known his race could develop until a few hours ago. He wished he could refute Baine’s claim, but the unfortunate truth of the matter was that the tauren chieftain was right. “We could make a final stand. Die fighting, at least.” he said, though even to him it sounded half-hearted.

“Or we could be sensible and take this offer before even more of Azeroth is destroyed. In my opinion, that would the more honourable course.”

Saurfang threw his friend a sour look. Baine had argued for a truce from the very beginning of this war, and while following events had made Saurfang begin to share that desire, agreeing to it now would be akin to admitting defeat. But it was either that or fight, and most likely die senselessly. Or, if by some stroke of luck they’d prevail, he’d have to continue fighting a war he could no longer see the honour in. None of the options agreed with him.

“Sylvanas will not approve of that decision.” Lor’themar pointed out in Baine’s direction. As always his impassive face was unreadable. It made it impossible to tell where he stood.

“Sylvanas isn’t here.” Saurfang stated. If he was honest with himself, he was glad of that fact. Perhaps he should have been a bit more distraught that the Warchief of his Horde had been captured by the enemy, but he couldn’t bring himself to be.

Baine didn’t have such qualms. “And thank the Earth Mother she isn’t, because if she were, those three might be sent back to Anduin as severed heads by now and the Alliance would be storming our walls! I’d say this outcome is the best we could hope for.”

“Careful what you say, _chief_.” hissed another voice.

Usually either carefully measured or mocking and derisive, now the open threat in it was unmistakeable. Saurfang did his best not to flinch as the Forsaken Nathanos Blightcaller stepped out of the shadows to the left of the throne. He didn’t know when or how he had appeared there; he could never hear the damn bastard coming. It was a nasty habit all of them seemed to share.

The Forsaken’s red eyes burned at Baine. “It figures you would be the first to bow. With all the friends you have on the other side of the ditch. But the rest of you?” He turned his gaze to Lor’themar and Saurfang. “You’re all short-sighted. Once our queen returns, the Alliance will break and none of this will matter. And here you are talking of surrendering to those – _men_.”

“The Alliance might object strongly to her just ‘returning’, Champion.” Lor’themar replied, far more politely than Saurfang would have been able to. “And as for it breaking, none of Sylvanas’ attempts in that direction have yet shown much promise; if anything they have only brought them closer together, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We won’t leave them a choice in the matter.” the Blightcaller said, ignoring the second half of Lor’themar’s objection completely. “I hear we’ve captured the king’s pet beast in the battle. I think I’ll pay it a little visit until it either howls out my queen’s location or its cries bring the boy king himself to our doors to beg for the wolf’s life.” He punctuated that sentence with a grim smile and turned, heading for the door.

“Nathanos!” Saurfang bellowed. As the Banshee Queens champion, the man was technically higher ranking than him, but enough was enough and his voice still carried enough authority for the Forsaken to stop in his tracks. “You won’t be torturing anyone, is that understood? You’re dooming the Horde if you do this.”

The Blighcaller turned around, a look of contempt on his face. “I hadn’t expected you of all our warriors to be afraid.”

Saurfang bared his teeth, steeping up to him. “The Alliance doesn’t scare me and neither do you, _Champion_. But forsaking every code of honour just for petty revenge? You’ve been after Greymane for a long time now, I know. But I won’t let you murder a defenceless prisoner and prove to the Alliance that we’re the monsters they claim we are!”

The other raised a mocking eyebrow. “Would it help your sense of honour if I untied the beast first? Or has your idealistic tauren friend here planted even more ridiculous notions in your head?”

“What would that be; basic common decency?” Baine said heatedly.

“Let me guess; you’d rather set the wolf free as a ‘gesture of goodwill’, correct? I’m sure the boy king will thank you politely before he resumes razing this city and takes your tribe as faithful, powerless subjects. But then that’s all your kind ever wanted, isn’t it?”

The tauren’s nostrils flared. A growl came from low in his throat as he took a step towards Nathanos.

“If I may,” Lor’themar interjected, his voice still measured, “I’d point out the option none of you seem to be considering: while we have lost our Warchief, Anduin Wrynn lost his general and close advisor. The logical solution that springs to mind is a trade. One prisoner for another. It wouldn’t need to be a basis for peace, but it would keep or options open.”

Saurfang scoffed. He was grateful to the High Elf that he was trying to prevent the others from going at each other’s throats, but he very much doubted that to be a viable solution. “They’d be fools if they agreed to that, Lor’themar. Sylvanas can do much more damage to them if she’s free than the wolf could to us. She _has done_ too much already.” The old orc shook his head as the vision of the burning tree flashed behind his eyes.

“From what I know, Wrynn and Greymane have a close bond; akin to, if not father and son, then mentor and student. It might make him susceptible to our proposal.”

“I doubt it.” Saurfang glanced at his friend. “Baine? You know them better than we do.”

Baine thought for a moment, then nodded rather reluctantly. Saurfang guessed that the idea would have agreed with him much better if the trade had been about anyone other than Sylvanas. “Maybe. But Anduin isn’t stupid. _If_ they agree, they won’t just let her go. They’ll demand concessions.”

“Which I’m sure you’ll meet.” Nathanos commented. Saurfang could see the silent fury simmering underneath the Forsaken’s disdainful expression. “I see you’ve resolved to keep talking. Talk, then. I have better things to do than listen to it.” His red eyes fixed on Saurfang one last time before he turned around and stalked out of the throne room.

Lor’themar stared at the spot where he’d disappeared. The elf’s expression betrayed worry for the first time. “I don’t like this.” he said quietly.

Saurfang could only agree. It wasn’t like Nathanos to back down from an argument. “I’ll double the guards on Greymane’s cell. Before he tries anything stupid.”

Baine shook his horned head. “He and Sylvanas would make the world burn before they’d listen to reason. And if we don’t do something, they just might.” His gaze roamed between the other two leaders. “This is the best and perhaps only chance we’ll get. We have to speak with Anduin and reach an agreement, quickly.” he urged.

“You’re proposing treason.” Lor’themar’s eyebrows rose in question. “Sylvanas is Warchief, and he’s her champion.”

“The Horde has always chosen its warchief.” the tauren disagreed hotly. “Look at what she’s done to Teldrassil; how she treats anything that isn’t Forsaken. I don’t know many who would still choose her.” His eyes fell on Saurfang. “I know you wouldn’t either, old friend. So stop supporting what you know is wrong and help us end this madness.”

His friend didn’t say it explicitly, what he expected him to do, but he didn’t have to. Saurfang stared back, trying to dissuade the tauren from that notion. He had never wanted to be Warchief, nor was he fit to be. Least of all now: In the past, at least it had always been somewhat clear who his enemies were. He missed those days.

But his friend was right in that this couldn’t go on like this.

The old soldier straightened his shoulders. “Go; talk to Wrynn.” he told Baine. Well aware that this was crossing the first line, and if Sylvanas were to return he would pay for it. _So be it_. He turned to Lor’themar, who had kept silent and watched the exchange with cautious apprehension. “You don’t have to agree with Baine; this is just ‘keeping our options open’. Can I count on you to keep Nathanos in check?”

* * *

Red eyes clashed with blue; one mocking, the other challenging. Again it was this ritual of sizing the other up before either of them made a move. Sylvanas wondered if on his part it was a show, or if this was the real Anduin Wrynn. She was almost willing to bet the former, but it would be interesting to find out.

When Wrynn moved, he surprised her by producing a key from inside his cloak. It was dull grey and worn at the edges, telling of frequent use. He unlocked the cell door and, with an ungraceful movement, stepped inside, closing it again behind him.

“Brave.” Sylvanas mocked, making a show of rattling her shackles. She ignored the burn of the Light-infused metal as it made contact with her skin.

“Just a matter of courtesy.” he countered. “We should speak face to face instead of through cell bars.”

“Why don’t you unlock these chains as well then, little lion? That would make for truly civilized conversation.”

He snorted wryly. “Thanks, but no. I’m not that trusting; though my friends insist on warning me so.”

“You should listen to those warnings sometime. If your track record is any indication, they are warranted. You’ve been taken prisoner more times than is reasonable even for human princes, if I recall correctly. It mystifies me how you have managed to survive this long, _little lion_.”

“Is that your first question, _Lady Windrunner_?”

“It is not.” So he really wanted to play out this little game, did he? Fine. Sylvanas thought for a moment and decided to first probe for some immediately beneficial information. “Where exactly is this place? I know you sent me through a portal, and I can hear the sea.”

Wrynn nodded. “We’re in a remote tower on the northern shore of Baradin Bay, just a couple of miles north of Ironforge. Usually used to house caught pirates until they can be picked up, hence the cell. Moira kindly left it at our disposal when I told her of our…predicament.”

“How nice of the dwarf.” Sylvanas said. There had been no hesitation with his answer, so he must have been expecting that question. Still, the lapping of the waves that she’d heard and the coldness of the air made her think that he’d told her the truth. There were of course other places that would meet those conditions, but what he described made sense from a tactical standpoint. Not _too_ far away from Undercity, but deep enough into Alliance territory that anyone who might discover her whereabouts would have a difficult time getting here. She smirked. “Though I don’t think I’ve ever been described as a predicament before. ‘Dashing’, sure; ‘plague’, occasionally. But a nuisance? I don’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted.”

“Moira called you something slightly less flattering when I spoke with her.” Wrynn replied drily. “I understand there’s no love lost between you two. My turn. Where is Genn Greymane being held?”

_Really?_ Sylvanas scoffed. “I don’t know.”

“But you must have some idea.”

“I do, but that’s another question. I’ve already answered yours.” She smirked. “Which means that it’s my turn.”

He blinked, bewildered. Then a look of annoyance passed over his features. “I had hoped we could start this off on more honest terms, at least.”

“Maybe you are just too trusting.” she replied innocently.

“I see. I’ll remember that next time.” He raised an eyebrow. “And your question?”

_Let’s see. _“Since you’ve so brazenly marched up to our walls and I’m indisposed, how do you plan on taking Undercity now?”

“Lordaeron.”

“No.” Sylvanas denied, cold seeping into her voice as she straightened in her shackles. “It will never be known by that name again.”

“It is an ancient human city…”

“It is ours by right.” she cut him off sharply. “And no human – least of all you – will ever rule it again.”

“Because of Arthas?”

“Answer my question!” she snapped.

He flinched at the vehemence in her voice. For a heartbeat, she had not seen Wrynn standing before her but _him_; the blond-haired, blue-eyed monster of a man who had destroyed everything she had once cared about. Sylvanas had not expected the powerful flash of hatred that had coursed through her then, had thought it long dead and buried along with the rest of her mortal feelings. _Don’t be a fool; look at him!_ she admonished herself. This blond-haired, blue-eyed human prince looking at her with worry was nothing like Arthas, and should not be capable of provoking such outbursts from her.

The worst part was that he hadn’t even done it intentionally.

His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer, and it was impossible to tell how much they saw. Finally he replied, “Currently we are offering your Horde the chance to surrender the city peacefully.”

“As a disguise for what plan?” Sylvanas demanded, finding reassurance in the brusque manner she could talk with him.

He shook his head. “No plan. Why does everyone expect it to be a trap? Is it so difficult to believe that I just want to avoid further bloodshed?”

“Not really; since you seem to have a bleeding heart, Wrynn. But I would sooner burn the city to the ground than let it fall into your hands, and my Forsaken feel the same. I’m sure your spymaster will have told you this as well. So what scheme has he come up with in the meantime?”

The young king frowned, his light brows drawing together. “If he has one, he hasn’t told me yet. And even if he has, I’d like to exhaust all other possible options before I’m forced to send my men against you again. Far too many of them have died already.”

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. This was so far removed from Arthas that it was almost laughable. “You really meant that you were going to be honest, didn’t you? I’ll give you some advice, little lion; I wouldn’t tell such things to my enemy, even if they are bound.”

His features twisted into a grimace. “Maybe I shouldn’t. But as I said; I will explore all other options first. This is one.”

Sylvanas looked him over more closely. Now that he stood in the light and no longer looked like a ghost from her past, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, from exhaustion or lack of sleep or both. Had he not rested at all since the battle? Perhaps it was muddling his mind a bit; that would explain some things. But far be it from her to mention that to him. “If you want to believe this is really going anywhere, by all means, let’s keep talking.”

“Good to hear such enthusiasm from you.” he said sarcastically. “It’s my turn again. Who is in command of the Horde in your absence?”

At least that was a worthwhile question on his part, though Sylvanas doubted that his spymaster wouldn’t know the details of the Horde’s workings if he’d asked him. Maybe he was just testing her. “My champion, I would imagine.” she answered. This one didn’t hurt to answer honestly.

“Nathanos, the Blightcaller.” Wrynn nodded. “I’ve heard of him. Not Highlord Saurfang, then?”

Sylvanas smirked. “If your question is who you could negotiate with, spare yourself the effort. Nathanos would put an arrow through you before you even reached the throne room. Though, he would probably reserve that pleasure for me.”

“You had your chance already.” His answering smirk was almost challenging.

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. _So you’re trying to play my game now, are you?_ “I could have put an arrow through your heart before you even saw me.” she taunted. “I chose not to. Do you know why?”

“No.” he replied.

“It was too easy.” she sneered. “You wouldn’t have been a challenge.”

He grinned – which was not the response she was expecting. “My turn.”

“What?” Sylvanas hissed. This princeling was developing an annoying habit of puzzling her with everything he said and did.

“It’s my turn of the game. You had your question and I answered it. I truly didn’t know why you wouldn’t have killed me when you had the chance.”

“That was a rhetorical…!” she cut herself off when she saw his grin only widened. He was copying her, she realized. Suddenly she had to fight off an amused grin of her own. “What was that horseshit you said about being honest?” she demanded.

“Is that another question, Lady Windrunner?”

Against her will, the grin broke through. _Not bad_. “Fair enough.” she allowed. “Capable of at least a little bit of thought, it seems.”

“You shower me with compliments.” In a stiff motion, he sat down on the cold stone so that they were at eye level. Fitting, Sylvanas mused, now that the conversation had turned into a more even spar than it had been at the beginning. She had to admit that he possessed some skill at diplomacy: having tested the waters, there was no reason to force her to keep looking up at him, and insisting on it would have been a show of inferiority – no matter how a lot of men might have thought the opposite. It confirmed what Sylvanas had first observed on the battlefield, when he had channelled the Light and brought the slaughter of his army to a stop: that despite his young age, this boy king had much potential; more than he was likely aware of. He was held back by his inexperience and his morals, though, and that made him vulnerable. She only needed to find an angle.

Wrynn crossed his legs and grimaced, probably at some pain that the change of position must have caused in his bad leg. “Now, in keeping with the topic of my death: Why were you so intent on killing me?”

Sylvanas raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, I’d like to know.”

“You’re the High King of the Alliance if you hadn’t noticed, little cub.” she replied derisively. “If you didn’t expect to have a massive target on your back, you’re an even greater fool than I thought.”

“So people keep telling me.” He tilted his head. “Still, you ignored everything else to get to me. My father used to say that in battle nothing gets you killed faster than focusing only on the enemy in front of you. I’m not the warrior he was, but apparently, neither are you.”

Again an attempt to rile her up; again a copy of her own tactic, albeit a poor one. A fast learner he might be, but it was still obvious that this was not his element – and yet the weak taunt managed to get under her skin. It spoke to how puzzled she herself was about her behaviour that it actually made her bristle. Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed. “Funny. Let me out of these chains and I’ll show you just how inadequate you are to your father!” she growled.

The young priest’s smile froze. For a second, his mask cracked, revealing uncertainty. Sylvanas smirked at the sight. Evidently she had struck home. _There_ was a weakness in the young king she could exploit: he was still stuck in the shadow of his father and not as accepting of it as he pretended to be. And that made it a subject worth exploring further.

“Put on as much ridiculous armour as you want, little king, you’ll never live up to Varian.” she bored deeper. “He stored you safe at home when he went off to fight the Legion, didn’t he? He saw what I see; that you’re not ready for the real world outside your moralistic little walls. He must have been so disappointed in you.”

Wrynn flinched like he’d been slapped. The calm exterior was completely gone now, replaced by an expression halfway between anger and apprehension. “What would you know about my father?” he asked hoarsely.

“More than you, I would say. He was my enemy for years and my ally for a few weeks – either of which is more time than he ever spent with you, isn’t it?”

She knew that would hurt him, because, while exaggerated, it wasn’t too far from the truth. Varian’s complicated relationship with his son had never been a secret, neither among the ranks of the Alliance nor those of the Horde. Everyone knew the former king of Stormwind had wanted a warrior like himself for an offspring, and that Anduin had disappointed that hope at every turn. Which he now seemed to try and make up for by acting the general that he clearly wasn’t. Yet.

He seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. “That’s not what I came here to talk about. If there’s no point to your theories, I suggest we…”

“Oh, but you’re forgetting yourself, little lion!” Sylvanas leaned forward, batting her lashes coquettishly. “It’s my turn to question, isn’t it? And you said that you’d answer everything honestly – including ‘family secrets’. Or were you lying?”

Wrynn gritted his teeth. “No.”

“So then. What I was wondering: Did your father ever tell you he loved you?”

“Yes! Of course he did!”

“Why so agitated? Could it be because you can count those times on your pretty little fingers?”

His expression turned stony. He shook his head. “I see. For a moment I had forgotten who I was talking to. I thought we could do something here, but you’re just as cruel and vain as your actions have made you out to be.”

“Is that so?” Sylvanas had heard the same and worse before, so often that it barely even registered anymore – so why did it now, suddenly, coming from him? Maybe it was the juxtaposition to his initial courteousness; now that he was finally dropping the act and throwing it in her face as everyone else did. She bared her teeth. “Rather quick to come to that conclusion you are. What happened to Varian’s peace-loving little son who he claimed could only see the good in people?”

Finally, there was a flash of the hatred she was used to seeing. It looked out of place on Wrynn’s face; the loathing he regarded her with was alien to those bright blue eyes. “He had a bell dropped on him and his father was abandoned on the Broken Shore.” he replied sharply.

Sylvanas scoffed. “Is that the mutt talking? Varian’s death was his own fault; he should have left while he had the chance.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. If he weren’t the soft, restrained boy that he still was, she imagined he would have lashed out at her. “My turn.” he managed, voice strained. “Why did you burn Teldrassil?”

There it was. The question whose answer had to already be fixed in his mind; which would cement the loathing that entered his eyes when he looked at her. Sylvanas was used to it.

With an abrupt motion she threw herself forward. The chains stopped her only inches from the boy’s face and she saw his eyes widened in shock. The Light burned deep into her wrists, but Sylvanas didn’t care. She bared her teeth in the mockery of a smile. “Because I’m a monster, little lion.” she said sweetly. “Because I could; because that dusty old tree had no more right to exist on this earth than me or my Forsaken. If your Night Elven friends are so distraught by it, they should have thought more carefully about joining your Alliance. Things die in war; they always have and always will. I know.”

Somewhere, her smile had turned bitter. “You will never understand that, _boy_; because you’ve never lost everything. But you will. And when it happens, it will break you. Me and my people, we were not broken; we – _I_ survived the destruction of all I had, and that gives me more right to live on this cursed earth than anyone else.” She looked at her opponent and scoffed. “You? You can't even move past the death of your father!”

She expected him to hit her or, failing that, to turn away and hide the tears that she had seen threatening to appear at the corners of his eyes. She thought it would be the latter. She almost wished for the former.

But all he did was stare at her, the hate on his face driven away by shocked surprise. It was impossible to tell whether it was the final taunt that had silenced him or her open show of callousness. Maybe he had really held out hope that she was better than her reputation, that she could be reasoned with, and now he was seeing that hope falling to pieces. Sylvanas couldn’t feel pity for him. It was about time he learned that despair.

“The _right_ to exist on this earth?”

It was little more than a whisper. Even Sylvanas could only make out that it came from Wrynn because she saw his lips move.

His voice rose in volume for his next shocked question: “You think this is about anyone’s _right_ to live?!”

“Hasn’t it always been about that?” she countered with another question.

The blue of his eyes had turned icy. His tone wasn’t far behind: “And who gets to decide who has that right? You?”

“That notion seems to trouble you.”

“I’d say it does, yes.” he confirmed, leaning forward until only inches separated their faces. If he was uncomfortable getting so close to her, nothing of it showed on his face. “Because you suggest that some beings’ lives are worth more than others’. You show only disdain for those you kill, like they’re somehow not _worthy_ of existing in your world. But you don’t get to make such a decision. No one does.”

“That’s funny.” Sylvanas said quietly. Her tone turned venomous, giving voice to the burning ire in her chest. “Because I learned it from your Alliance. Who were _you_ to turn us Forsaken away when we begged for your help?”

The ice thawed abruptly as his eyes widened. His mouth opened, but she wouldn’t let him speak. Her whisper shut him up more effectively than her sneers had. “Oh, you were noble alright. Honourable. You had a peace-loving people and didn’t want it sullied with our rot. We didn’t have the right to be a part of that people – we shouldn’t even have existed. You were in the right to turn that unnatural rabble away.” Sylvanas abandoned the unbearably unctuous tone and spat. “It didn’t matter then that we disagreed. We should have just been good Dead and faded from existence. But what can I say; we’re a stubborn lot. So if you ask what gives me the right to decide?” She glared. “I’d answer, better me than anyone else!”

For the first time, the young king opposite her seemed lost for words. Likewise for the first time, he suddenly couldn’t seem to look at her face. He cast his eyes down to the floor. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Her nostrils flared. “Who cares if you’re sorry?”

Wrynn found the courage to look up, meeting her smouldering glare. “I didn’t make that decision.” he said quietly.

“You think that matters? It was the same righteous Alliance that besieges us now. You can try to wash your hands of it all you like…”

“That’s not what I’m trying.” He looked away again, burying his face in his hands. Suddenly he only looked tired. There was a heaviness laced through his voice: “I know our history can’t just be washed away. I can no more erase Arthas than you can erase Garrosh. But burning every bridge, everything in your way, is not the answer. It can’t be.”

“And there we are; back to your notion of peace.” Sylvanas mocked. It came out a little strangled: With her fury simmering down, her body was starting to register the blinding pain that had shot through her wrists. While she had strained against them, her shackles had seared through flesh, muscle and sinew all the way down to the bone. It _burned_ like nothing Sylvanas had felt in a long time. It was all she could do not to cry out.

“I wanted…” Wrynn trailed off, his brows drawing together in a frown. His eyes skimmed over her face. “What are you… Are you alright?”

She refused to answer, shifting away from him. But even this small movement caused the chains to dislodge and she hissed, catching the smell of smouldering flesh.

Wrynn’s frown deepened. In an ungraceful motion he got to his feet and covered the remaining distance between them. Sylvanas glared at him, clenching her fists. He bent around her to inspect the chains, forcing her to crane her neck to keep him in view. He carefully ran his gloved fingers across her wrists and he gave an indefinable noise. “A Light enchantment?”

He was so close; no more than an inch separated them. If Sylvanas were able to move even one arm she could have grabbed his throat and squeezed until his pretty face turned purple. Oh, how much she wanted to. The pain made dark spots dance in her vision. “Not your idea, then?” she bit out.

“No.” he muttered. Abruptly, he removed his gloves, leaving his hands bare. They started to glow in a faint light. “Hold still.”

Before she could demand what he was doing near her with a Light spell, he closed his eyes and spoke a short incantation. The light around his palms flared up, reaching for the shackles. The next second, the burning sensation abruptly ceased.

Sylvanas was too surprised to move for a second. She flexed her wrists. They flared with pain, but otherwise nothing happened when they made contact with the chains. They were now just plain metal. She focused her gaze back on the priest. “Do you expect me to thank you?”

She heard him sigh. “I don’t expect anything. Just accept it, alright?” His warm fingers traced around the frayed edges of skin where the shackles had left their mark, surprisingly gentle. He winced when he got to the deep burn marks underneath. “I knew Light hurt the Forsaken, but I never… I didn’t know it was this bad.”

Sylvanas barked a laugh, coming out too bitter. “Doubting the holiness of your profession, priest? As undead we’re not part of your Light; unnatural, remember? As a righteous, do-good healer, it must be so frustrating that your arts only serve to harm us.”

“It… doesn’t seem right, no. But I’m a discipline priest; I have some spells other than Light I could try. Do you want me to heal it?” Still his fingers traced carefully across the burns. The blue eyes met hers, asking for permission.

She looked at him, forgetting to mask her surprise. “You know Shadow magic?” she asked sceptically. It was the only school of magic she could think of that contained some beneficial effects for the Forsaken. But imagining this bright-eyed, fair-haired _boy_ wielding it was just bizarre.

Wrynn smiled, without guile. “All Light priests know some of it, though I imagine most don’t want to announce that far and wide. Clashes with the image and all. But you have to understand some of the other side’s workings if you ever want to master your own, and – well, you inevitably pick up a few useful things on the way.”

Maybe she had misjudged him yet again. Maybe there was still more to this innocent little lion cub than met the eye. If only a little.

He was still looking at her, waiting for a reaction. “So, do you want me to try? I think Shadowmend should work here, though I will admit that I am not terribly well practised in that spell…”

“Leave it!” she said, more sharply than intended. “I don’t want you burning my hands off, Wrynn.”

“I promise I am not going to burn you.”

“I said leave it!”

He flinched at the vehemence of her exclamation. The warmth of his hands retreated from her skin as he bent around to look at her. His boyish face was twisted in a confused frown. The expression only made Sylvanas more furious. Young, righteous and _caring_. Like he’d forgotten that they were enemies.

The puzzled look on his face deepened. “…You’re not afraid that I’ll hurt you.” he said slowly. “You’re afraid that I might actually heal you. That I might _help_ you.”

Sylvanas scoffed. “Afraid? Certainly; whatever you want to believe, little lion.”

It sounded too guarded even to her own ears, and she could see that he heard it, too. She glared at him, daring him to comment. Then she noticed that his eyes were darting back and forth from her face to her wrists. There was no taunt coming, she realized: he was still focused on her injury. Sylvanas was overcome with the desire to murder him.

His jaw worked. “They’re really badly burnt. It wouldn’t take more than a second…”

“Does ‘no’ mean something different where you’re from?” she asked hotly. “I’m not going to let a cleric touch me, least of all you!”

“Please just let me do this. I know you don’t lose blood, but you still feel pain and I’m not going to torture you!” His voice again dropped to this quiet, imploring tone: “There’s no shame in accepting help sometimes, Sylvanas.”

“Oh, how wise. You would be an expert on that.” she returned, her lips thinning.

His response didn’t go beyond a quick eye roll. “So you’d rather be in pain? You won’t let me do anything?”

“Well, I suppose you could loosen these shackles. They do sting a bit.”

For a second, the fool actually seemed to be considering it. Then he luckily (for him) snapped out of it and shook his head. “I’ll get you something for those burns by tomorrow.” he muttered, apparently loath to fully admit defeat.

“Enough of this.” Sylvanas said impatiently. “We’re still playing, aren’t we? It’s my turn.” She hadn’t actually kept track, but she was also past giving a damn. Anything to get that absurd, caring expression off his face when he looked at her.

“I’m not sure if we’ve made progress so far, but alright. What do you want to know?”

“What do you want with all this?” she asked her question, and for the first time a tiny part of her had to admit to herself that she was honestly curious. She couldn’t make sense of this strange amalgamation of enemy and healer, boy and king, weakness and courage that was standing before her. His contradictions were driving her insane.

Anduin’s expression set. His damn, honest eyes met hers. “I told you already. I want peace.”

“You really expect that to happen?”

“If I keep throwing myself at the dead ends then yes, I believe at some point one of them has to crumble and make a path just to stop me being a nuisance about it.”

What in the name of the Old Gods was he going on about? Sylvanas decided not even to bother asking. “Let me rephrase that: do you really expect talking to me of all people would help you in your naïve quest? I’ve never championed peace, and besides I am locked up here. What do you expect you’ll gain by trying to change my mind?”

“I _hope_ to get through to you in some form. You are the one person who can change things.”

Sylvanas would have loved to sneer at that. To tread his naïve, presumptuous notion into the dirt where it belonged.

But the scorn never made it past her lips. Because only a week ago when she had walked through Undercity, one of her Forsaken had told her the very same thing. _You are the only one we can count on to change things for the better, my lady_.

Sylvanas didn’t know why this déjà vu made her falter. Why the thought of Wrynn and her Forsaken agreeing on something – on _her_ – threw her off balance. She had to clear her throat, covering it up as a coughing fit. Half her wrists were missing; she had an excuse to be sick. “Fair’s fair. You answered my question.” she managed once the strange moment had passed. Going back to the ‘game’ was instinctive, returning to familiar waters to wash over her brief spell of uncertainty. “Now it’s your turn, and the last. This game is starting to bore me, so make it quick.”

Her opposite gave a slight nod. He didn’t ‘make it quick’ at all, though, choosing instead to painfully slowly sit down in front of her. Now they were of a height again, though the atmosphere had changed somewhat from before. Anduin’s eyes were deep blue pools, picking up their now familiar habit of searching her face; what for she still couldn’t guess.

Just when Sylvanas was about to prod him to open his damn mouth already, he asked: “Why do you think you’re a monster?”

She frowned. “What?”

“You claim you commit these atrocities because you are a monster. That wasn’t just a taunt.” He leaned a little closer. No, her proximity didn’t seem to bother him at all. “Every person I have ever met believed that their actions were in the right, no matter how cruel some of them were. Why don’t you?”

Sylvanas gave a short laugh. “What an odd question. Only a monster could burn down a world tree, couldn’t they? Your Alliance is all too fond of calling me that; so I don’t see why this is your question.”

“That’s not an answer. It doesn’t matter what anyone else calls you – you yourself insisted that you don’t care. This is coming from you, no one else.” he persisted. His eyes wouldn’t let go of her. “Why do you think you’re a monster?”

Sylvanas gave a disaffected shrug. This was straying into territory that she had no wish to enter; pushing open doors that she had closed a long time ago. “What else should I call myself, after everything I’ve lived through? I needed to become a monster to survive, so I did. That’s all there is to it. Why are you so interested?”

Technically that was another question, but Sylvanas found that she was once again too annoyed to let technicalities get in the way. And she wanted to know his answer.

“Perhaps I don’t agree with you. Perhaps I don’t think you’re as irredeemable as you make yourself out to be.”

Sylvanas scoffed. “So you’re going to _redeem_ me, priest, is that what this is all about? Bringing the fallen angel back into the light? Maybe cure my undeath, too, while you’re at it? What a noble notion. I’m sorry, little lion, but stronger men than you have tried, and I have outlived them all. I’ll outlive you too, if you aren’t careful.”

She was prepared for a stubborn repetition of those platitudes she had spelled out for him. She was prepared for flustered indignation that she would shun his attempt to ‘fix’ her.

She wasn’t prepared for the sad smile that appeared on his face. Anduin shook his head. “You probably will. Don’t worry; I’m not going to try and ‘cure you’, as you put it. I don’t think anyone can undo what happened to you – and as much as you hate it, I don’t think you want it undone, do you? As long as your work isn’t finished, you’re not going to rest. Am I right?”

Sylvanas cocked her head. “For once, you are.” she answered in the affirmative. If nothing else, this prince was perceptive. Despite the anger that was still – always – coursing through her veins, she had to smile. This wasn’t what she had expected at the outset. Ridiculous notions aside, a conversation with Anduin was turning out to be just as interesting as fighting him. Sylvanas leaned forward, just far enough to brush his personal space. “So then, little lion, where does this leave us?”

Was that a hint of nervousness that flashed across his face? Anduin cleared his throat, pulling away and getting to his feet. The priest’s mask pulled back in place, though not quite as impassive as before. “Able to continue this conversation tomorrow?” he said questioningly. “I’d like to keep playing this with you if you are willing.”

Sylvanas graced him with a small grin. “If you so wish. I’m not going anywhere.” To her own surprise, it didn’t come out so much mocking as it did teasing. The light, little note slipped into her voice without any input on her part; without thinking.

Odd.


End file.
